


You're Bigger Than the Sea That You're Sinking In

by hoteldestiel



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/F, Heavy Angst, M/M, Mentions of Suicide, Multi, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-14
Updated: 2019-05-14
Packaged: 2020-03-05 14:07:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18830224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoteldestiel/pseuds/hoteldestiel
Summary: Quentin Coldwater walked through a door in the Underworld, because that was how destiny worked, right?Then he turned around and walked right back through it again.This is what happens next.





	You're Bigger Than the Sea That You're Sinking In

**Author's Note:**

> PHEW. 
> 
> This is my entry for The Welter's Challenge 2019, Week Two: Destiny. 
> 
> I uh, didn't really have time to edit it before entering it, so I might come back and do that later, but the concept came to me a few days ago and I just went with it.

Quentin's gut churned uneasily as he approached the empty door frame. He looked over his shoulder at Penny, hardly believing it was the same Penny who had threatened him with bodily harm for mentally humming Taylor Swift not all that long - and yet somehow an entire lifetime - ago. He swallowed, but the lump in his throat stayed firmly in place. Penny looked on; serene and encouraging, hands clasped in front of him like a CEO posing for a headshot. It was a little unnerving, really, how starkly different he'd become since he'd signed his afterlife away to the Underworld Branch. Quentin tried to pin the dark, tight ball of anxiety in his gut on that jarring change in personality, but that didn't settle right, either.  Wasn't he supposed to feel peaceful about this? Wasn't moving on supposed to be an unburdened finality, the answer to the equation of his destiny, every moment leading up to this one adding together in perfect clarity? He'd always thought the afterlife would have a slightly warmer welcome. The sterile, cold, grayness of the quiet room seemed wrong. The final disappointment of existence, he supposed. He took a deep breath, staring at the blank space in front of him, and balled his fists at his side.  _Come on, Q. You can do this. It's just - moving on. It's what you've always wanted on some level, isn't it? You saw them all. They'll be okay. You'll be okay. Finally. All you have to do is - step through. It's time. It's time. It's time._

He held his breath, counted to 10, and stepped through just as the thought hit him with the same force as the blast in the mirror realm - _It isn't time._

_Fuck._

Quentin squeezed his eyes shut tight, panic already wrapping its tight ropes around every part of him and pulling, hard. Maybe - maybemaybemaybe - his mind scrambled for something, anything. Maybe if he didn't _see_ the afterlife, he could go back. If he just - it was a doorway, right? Maybe he could - he turned an exact 180 from where he'd stepped through and, without opening his eyes, pushed himself through what he hoped against hope was that goddamned doorway again. 

Pressure surrounded him on all sides, gentle at first, then uncomfortable, then crushing, a harsh tugging sensation pulling out from everywhere inside of him at the same time some invisible force pressed unbearably from everywhere outside of him. Whatever he'd just done was clearly _wrong,_ and the multiverse was hell-bent on making sure his already-dead being (was he a body anymore? a soul? something else entirely? The mechanics of having died 40 times, 41 if you counted -- eluded him) understood just how badly he'd messed up. Again. 

This was it. It had to be. He was being obliterated, atoms and all, push-pulled into less than nothingness. That was the only explanation for the agony, the weightless agony that couldn't be placed. Then, suddenly, the push-pull stopped, shifting to full push until he fell forward from somewhere, to somewhere, a flash of white-bright light propelling him out of the dark vacuum and then -- warmth. 

Warmth and sunlight and the honey-sweet smell of wildflowers, the fresh-loamy smell of grass and soil and _life._

He blinked against the warmth, reaching his hands out blindly and feeling the cool tickle of blades of grass against his skin. Above him, blue sky and a few spare clouds moving lazily across the expanse of it. One of them looked a little like a door, he thought, if he squinted just so and tilted his head to the left at an uncomfortable angle. When everything inside of him didn't feel vaguely like it might pop out if he moved any more than he had, he propped himself up on his elbows, his movements slow and stilted against the after-effects of the pressure that was no longer threatening to eradicate his every cell from existence. 

This was more along the lines of what he'd expected the afterlife to look like if he'd somehow managed to work his way into heaven. If he even believed in Heaven anymore, after everything. If he even believed in anything anymore, after everything. But it wasn't what he expected it to feel like. Everything was so _real._ He could feel the grass between his fingers, the coolness of the soil below it. He could smell the sweetness of the wildflowers and the fresh warmth of early-Summer air. He could hear the buzzing of the bees as they flitted from flower to flower around him. That was a curious sound, he realized after a moment. Their buzzing didn't sound like what he remembered from trips upstate with his dad. It sounded almost like - like a language. No, it _was_ a language. That was - was that _Lorian?_  

Quentin scrambled to his feet, frantically scanning the horizon for - where was it, where _was_ it - _THERE!_ The dazzling towers of Whitespire caught the light of both suns spectacularly, the refractions casting a faint rainbow halo around the tops of the towers.

_Fillory._

He took off running through the field toward the castle. _Holy shit. It worked._ If he'd, by some insane timeline-world-transport-fuckery, landed in Fillory instead of the afterlife, maybe he was _alive._ Maybe he'd undone the thing he hadn't meant to do in the first place. Maybe, _God,_ just maybe, he'd saved himself. And if he was in Fillory, maybe he could get back to Earth, could get back to everyone. Emotion ripped out of his throat in a ragged sob at the thought. He could, he could get back to Julia, and Margo, and _Eliot,_ and -- _Alice._ He blinked through the tears streaming down his face as his feet carried him closer, closer, closer to the castle. Fen could help. Fen would help, right? Sweet, loyal Fen. Of course she would. 

It felt like years, complete eternities, that he ran, and ran, and ran, across the field, down a hill, through a forest, his clothes catching on branches and ripping a little here and there, scratches appearing on his arms and once, across his cheek and he didn't care. He didn't care, he didn't _care_ because he knew this forest. He knew this land. This was Fillory, and on the other side of this forest was Whitespire and just inside that castle was his ticket home. Faintly, he knew this wasn't how it should work, but he wasn't supposed to be able to get Alice back when she'd become a Niffin, either. He wasn't supposed to be able to save Eliot from the monster. Magic fucked him over far more often than it worked in his favor, but it was powerful whether he wanted to acknowledge that or not. He'd brought people back from death before, why not him, this time? 

His legs ached from the strain of endurance, begged him to stop when the doors finally came into view. He pushed them harder, adrenaline fueling the last sprint before he reached his destination. Wrapping both hands around the wrought iron handles of the towering white-wooden doors, Quentin pulled it open, his mouth dry and palms damp with his sudden proximity to answers. To people. To life. Life. _Life._

The door closed behind him with a grand thud and he started down the marble-floored hallway except - the familiar intricately designed marble was no longer beneath his feet. Instead, his muddied shoes were on the cream carpet of - _What the fuck?_

Quentin looked up, his breath hiccuping in his throat. He knew this place. The soft sage green of the walls, the eclectic artwork hanging above the bed, the butterfly paper lantern that Quentin had never been able to fully reconcile with all the harsh edges and lightning-quick decisions of the woman he loved. The familiar burgundy bedding, the floral painting that always reminded him of how much Alice wanted to believe in the good of things, even when it felt impossible. The bookshelves, overflowing with texts from cultures across the world, ancient and modern and containing thousands of circumstances he knew Alice could account for her in spellwork without thinking twice. He wasn't in Whitespire. He was in Alice's room, at Brakebills. In the Physical Kids Cottage. 

"Alice?" he managed around the hard knot in his chest that made breathing exceptionally difficult. "Alice, are you - it's Quentin, it's me," he tried again. Silence greeted him. 

Running a shaking hand through his hair, Quentin slumped onto the bed. What the hell was going on? 

"Penny?" he tried, desperate for some kind of clue, a hint, any context to help explain how the fuck Whitespire's door led him to Alice's bedroom. "If this is some bullshit underworld afterlife test, I'm really, um, really not in the fucking mood, man." 

When a disturbingly placid, grey-suited Penny was nowhere to be found, Quentin fell back into the mattress, a frustrated groan falling from his lips. He twisted his hands into the comforter, the familiar softness of it stirring memories to life behind his closed-tight eyes. How many times had he crawled into this bed and curled up against Alice, her strong, powerful hands suddenly gentle and sweet as they smoothed over his hair? How many nights had they spent mapping each other's bodies like dedicated explorers determined to learn every inch of their newest discovery? He rolled over, pushing himself up and kicking his shoes off as he scooted so his back rested against the cold metal of the headboard. 

"What the hell is going on, here?" he asked the question aloud, but he was about three unanswered questions past expecting an answer. 

His head lolled to the side hopelessly, his eyes landing on a picture frame on Alice's bedside table. It was a simple silver frame, not ornate or engraved. It struck him as exactly the kind of frame Alice would choose. He reached for it, pulling the 5x7 into his lap. A longer-haired Quentin grinned goofily back up at him, his arm draped easily over Alice's shoulders. Her face was obscured by her curtain of blonde hair, the thick black frame of her glasses making her eyes invisible for him, her lips pressed to his cheek. They looked so carefree, his chest ached with how far away that smile felt. His vision blurred with tears. "I'm so sorry, Vix," he whispered, his breath rattling around the nickname, wet and broken. 

_Did I die saving my friends, or did I finally find a way to kill myself?_ The question hit him like a tanker truck, knocking the air out of his lungs and pounding on his chest like he knew Alice would have if she could have just pulled him out of the seam room. He knew what Penny's answer had been, but the way his stomach had churned before he stepped through - he wasn't sure if he believed it. He could see the terror in Alice's eyes as the spell erupted, the backward magic of the mirror realm igniting his minor mending like a supernova. Her screams echoed in his ears until his breaths came so shallow he had to double over, grasping at the sides of his head with his hands, forcing deeper inhales. 

Had the spell caught up to him before he could escape, or had he--? 

Quentin reached for the frame again, tightened his grip on the sides of the frame, the bite of the metal digging into the joints of his fingers bringing him back enough to scramble off the bed and set the photo back in its rightful place. It didn't matter. It didn't matter because he was back, now. Trapped in some weird spell or something, but back. He had to be back, right? There was no other explanation for how real everything felt. He just needed to shake the unbearable fog in his head. If he could see a little more clearly, he could figure this out. He walked across the room, his legs still aching from his run in Fillory, and opened the door to Alice's bathroom. He just needed to splash a little water over his face, maybe take a shower, get his head on straight. Do some things that felt _human_ again. 

He shut the door behind him, and reached for the cold water handle on the sink, cupping his hands under the stream of water ---

"You have _got_ to be fucking kidding me," Quentin said, throwing his waterless hands in the air. 

The room he found himself in now was stark white-grey, almost like the one Penny had ushered him to after the bonfire. Almost, except that it was _freezing._

Pulling at the sleeves of his black hoodie, he suddenly wished he'd worn something thicker to his death. Or asked Penny for a coat or something, for wherever the hell that door was supposed to go. Jesus, why was it so cold? He looked down at his feet. No shoes. He rummaged through the closet in the corner of the small, rectangular room, sighing in relief when he found fur-lined boots and a thick, white, ribbed sweater with an embroidered crest. 

_Really? Brakebills South?_

The only thing his newest location had in his favor was the lack of goddamned doors on the rooms. Tugging on the boots, grateful for the buffer they provided between his thin-sock-clad feet and the icy cold cement floor, he pulled the sweater over his head and headed out of the room, roaming the empty halls for someone, anyone. He'd even take Mayakovsky's off-putting demeanor happily at this point. Unsurprisingly, Brakebills South hadn't changed a bit. It was every bit the cold, desolate place he remembered it as, he could practically feel it sucking the hope from him as it drained heat from his body. Honestly, why didn't Mayakovsky spell the place warm when students weren't around? He wandered into the open area where they'd first arrived, back when he was a first year. The long tables remained, but no one was there. Why couldn't he find anyone? As he walked alongside the table he let his hand run across the chilled surface, goosebumps breaking out across his skin. He couldn't remember the last time he felt like this. He couldn't remember the last time he _felt, full stop._

After months of being tortured by the monster, after feeling pain in every possible way at the hands of someone wearing the face of one of his best friends, the man he loved despite himself, he'd shut down. Shutting down was the only way to get through everything he had to do, everything he had to witness. But he'd never expected the numbness to -- to win. 

_This isn't over. Yes, it is._

The words had fallen so easily from his lips when Julia tried to pull him out of the deep, dark hole he'd flung himself into. He'd given up so easily, hadn't he? After spending 2 and a half decades fighting, fighting, fighting, and somehow coming out on top. After facing a physical manifestation of the voice that tried to take him down countless times over his years and _winning,_ he'd given up so easily. That wasn't him. It was the switch he'd flipped to get through, refusing to let him flip it back on again. 

A spark caught the corner of his eye and he turned on his heel, ready to pounce on whoever'd caused it. "Who's there?" he shouted, hearing only the echo of his own voice as a response. His eyes darted around the room frantically and then he spotted it - the blue hoops glowing with electricity, the ones Mayakovsky made them practice mind control on. Quentin swallowed hard, staring at them - did Mayakovsky just leave them on at all times? What a colossal waste of energy. God, did the depths of doucheyness in that man truly know no bounds? Then, a zap and another spark as a fly, or something he couldn't see hit the ring, dissipating into even more nothing than it had been before. 

Quentin tore his eyes away, pressing the heels of his hands into his eye sockets as the memory was replaced with another. The seam, opened up as the last of his spell worked, reversing the crack Everett put in the mirror. The way he'd wound back, throwing the monster's essence into the seam with everything he had, even as sparks started shooting from the frame of the portal. The way he'd turned, and started toward the door. The look he'd seen - in Alice's eyes, the sparks of the spell reflecting in the familiar, comforting thick black frames of her glasses. The pained expression on Penny 23's face as he pulled at her waist, just what he'd requested. He could feel the heat, the force of what he'd done at his back, but he could also feel the cool air in front of him, and he took another step into it. He did, he did, he _did._

And then he didn't. He stopped. He was tired, to his bones, deeper than his bones, in his marrow he was tired and he - he'd stopped. 

He reached blindly for the nearest surface, his hand landing on a cabinet, guiding himself through blurred vision to it until he felt his back connect with the cool surface and slid down, down, down until he was sitting on the floor. 

_Did I die saving my friends? Or did I finally find a way to kill myself?_

He'd only asked because he knew the answer, and he wanted Penny to lie to him. And he had. His head fell into his hands, his shoulders shaking with the force of the sobs that ripped out of him one after another, separated only just by gasping, ragged breaths. He sat on the cold ground and lost himself to the waves of tears, of sorrow, of exhaustion that crashed over him - again, and again, and again - until his legs were numb against the cold stone of the floor beneath him and his eyes were swollen from the emotion he never allowed himself until it was too late. 

He'd stopped. 

But he didn't want to die. 

He pressed himself off the floor and walked, with renewed purpose despite the nagging weakness in his legs, back down the hall, looking for a door. Oh, for fuck's sake, weren't there _any_ goddamn doors in this place? Empty door frame after empty door frame taunted him until he was screaming - frustration and anger and sorrow and something else, maybe hope - erupting from him in an echoing boom of a yell as he picked up his pace, running down the hall until he reached the end of it and turned, to his left, to see the door to Mayakovsky's office. He sprinted toward it, fingers turning the handle as soon as it was within reach, and flung himself through the passageway. 

When he shut the door behind him, he didn't expect to see Mayakovsky's office sitting in front of him, anymore. He expected maybe Julia's old apartment in Brooklyn, or Dean Fogg's office, or maybe even his childhood home. But he never would have - never _could have_ \- expected what lay before him when he opened his eyes again. 

Quentin thought he'd cried out every possible tear inside of him, but an unexpected sob rose out of his throat at the tiny kitchen, the bed that had never been big enough for Eliot's lengthy form, but he'd always made due anyway, usually by curling his long body tightly around Quentin's (which Quentin had no complaints for, even on the hottest nights), the makeshift toiletries cabinet that was really three planks of wood nailed to the only open space on the wall outside of the bathroom, because there wasn't enough space _in_ the bathroom for it, the poorly-built round wooden table with four chairs even though only two had been occupied for so many years Quentin lost count, the bowl of fruit that always resided in the center of the table - peaches and plums. 

How was this even _possible?_ This timeline hadn't even happened. Except that it had. It had, because Quentin had tried so hard to forget about it, to forget about the way Eliot turned him down when the memories of it rushed back to them both. He'd tried to forget about the hope that had shot through him when, for a brief blissful moment, Eliot was _Eliot_ again and the first thing he said was "50 years. Who gets proof of concept like that?" Tried to forget about how _mad_ he was that Eliot would say that, would use _that,_ after telling him that they wouldn't work. How _pissed_ he was that he'd let Eliot walk away after spending a lifetime understanding how self-sabotaging he could be. How _furious_ he was that Eliot, who had spent a lifetime understanding how self-sabotaging Quentin could be, didn't fight harder for what they'd had. 

How was he _here,_ of all places? 

He walked into the kitchen, finally splashing water against his face like he'd meant to do three - rooms? dimensions? Who the fuck knew - ago, and reached for the towel they'd made out of a pair of Eliot's old pants - one of their first attempts at making their own clothing, before Arielle. They were both talented magicians, Eliot was an excellent cook, and Quentin was a hell of a crossword puzzle-solver, but seamstresses, they were not. He rubbed the deep red fabric over his face, his stomach retching at the memory it brought back. Not of his life at the mosaic. 

Of blood, so much blood, gushing from the deep, wide slice in Eliot's abdomen. Of Margo yelling, screaming, pleading with him to stay. Of how he'd stared straight ahead, pouring all of his focus into the cooperative spell that would keep the monster locked away in the bottle, instead of helping Margo apply pressure to the wound. Instead of looking down, instead of seeing Eliot, alive, again. The thing he'd thrown himself on the sword for repeatedly, ceaselessly, for the better part of a year. And he couldn't even bother to see it. 

He remembered how he hadn't followed Margo to the hospital, how he'd wanted to, how he was terrified to. 

Clutching the fabric of the towel against his chest, he leaned his head back against the wall of the hut, closing his eyes to steady himself. "El, god, El," he said, the sorrow of it filling the tiny space they used to call home, together. 

When the trembling in his fingers subsided, he carefully, lovingly hung the towel back over the homemade rack Eliot had whittled them, somewhere around his 37th birthday, before crossing the small space between himself and the front door. He forced himself to ignore the pang in his heart at the idea of leaving this all behind, again. The hut was empty. And it had never been the hut itself that made it home, anyway.

The slight chill of the air in Fillory when fall was on its way hit his face for the briefest of seconds and then he was surrounded by darkness, the crisp scent of the air replaced with a damp, dank smell. The darkness was punctuated every few feet by glowing torches attached to both sides of the dark, stone walls. His blood ran cold. 

_Blackspire._

For the first time since he walked through the first door in the Underworld, Quentin was praying that the pattern of being alone continued, here. Inhaling deeply, he walked down the path that had started the cascade of fuck-ups and terrors that made up his life. He walked through the stone hall, into the open area that housed the fountain. Disgust twisted in his gut. He could see Alice's fingers working the spell that melted the keys, that stripped Julia of her goddesshood when she'd put the keys back together. It was that moment, that betrayal that made Quentin hate Alice, but the spark of that feeling faded quickly. He understood, now. Why she'd done what she'd done. He loved her still. 

He could see the stricken look on Eliot's face when he came back, barely able to keep his hand on the gun he'd shot the monster with, thinking he'd neatly tied a bow on a dangerous situation when in reality he'd only made things worse. He could see the hope draining from his eyes as the keys melted before them. Eliot needed magic like he needed to breath. Quentin loved him still. 

He moved past the open area, back down the hall where he'd followed Ora, where he hadn't known Eliot was following him. He needed a door, there had to be a door. The winding halls of the Castle took him deeper into the darkness and Quentin tried his best to remember each turn he took, back then, and now, as he continued his search, growing more frantic by the minute. Once, he'd sworn he was ready to spend eternity in here, to play gatekeeper for the monster in order to let Ora go free. Now, he couldn't imagine why. So often, he was willing to sacrifice everything for the "greater good." For the benefit of magic, or to keep his friends "safe," as if safety existed in a world where magic also did. But now that he had, now that he'd made the ultimate sacrifice, all he wanted was to take it back. 

He didn't want to die. 

He never _really_ wanted to die. 

No, he wanted to live. 

Not just exist, _live._

He turned a corner, and his heart skipped in his chest. Or, no, that wasn't right, was it? Quentin held a hand to his chest, his eyes growing wide when he realized there was no beat. Everything about him felt so real, everything about all of this felt so real, but his heart wasn't beating? 

"Penny, I swear to god," he said, staring straight ahead at the massive wooden door with the wrought iron handles, the dark shadow-mirror of Whitespire's. "If this is a sick Underworld joke I will find a way to haunt your dead ass." 

He walked to the door, wrapping both hands around the handle and pulling, hard, until there was a space large enough for him to squeeze through. He slipped through, the door slammed shut behind him with an echoing _thud_ and Quentin stepped into - 

into -

"Quentin?"

His eyes snapped open. His heart pounded against his ribs. No, wait - no, that _was_ right. His _heart pounded_ against his ribs. 

"Alice?" 

The blonde hair was covering his face as her arms wrapped firmly around his shoulders before he could fully process if he'd placed the voice right or not, but he wrapped his arms around her waist on instinct, regardless. 

"How- how are you here right now?" she asked, pulling away, her hands on his cheeks in an instant, eyes roving his face like she was trying to memorize every line while simultaneously looking for any signs of black magic, or possibly any signs that he was a zombie. 

"Coldwater?" 

That was Margo, and if he wasn't mistaken, it cracked around the edges. 

"I don't, really - know?" he answered Alice, brushing the hair away from her face.

"You should be - I watched you - I don't understand," she said, tears filling her eyes. 

"I know," he said, reaching up to wipe a tear as it fell, wishing he could explain to her how sorry he was.  "I know, Vix. I think I was, I mean, I know I was, but something - happened." 

"Fucking Christ, Coldwater. I can't believe you went and got yourself killed," Margo said, pushing her way into the moment. Alice, with a watery smile and a million words he knew she wanted to say on the tip of her tongue, stepped aside to make way for the fury of dark waves and ruby-red painted lips that confronted him next. 

"And for what? To dust some baby back bitch monster who wasn't even using El's body anymore? The old gods were so far up their asses they couldn't be fucked to deal with it, so you thought you had to fulfill their fucked up destiny for them?"

Quentin swallowed, not knowing what to say in the face of Margo. Furious Margo, he could handle. But righteously angry Margo, with tears glassing her eyes over? That he didn't know what to do with. Even if he had, any words he'd managed to come up with would have died on his lips at what came next. 

"Yeah, well, someone once told me that destiny was bullshit. I thought it was pretty good advice. Kind of wish he'd listened to it himself." 

Across the room, pushing himself up with obvious effort, wobbling until the cane in his hand steadied him, tall and elegant and broken as ever, stood Eliot. Margo pointed an accusatory finger at Quentin before rushing back to Eliot's side, fussing over him. 

"Bambi, please," he said, brushing her off. 

"He listened," Quentin said, the weight of the moment finally sinking in, "A couple minutes past self-sacrifice, but he listened." 

"Always with learning the hard way, this one," he quipped, but Quentin heard the way his voice wavered. 

Quentin crossed the space between them before Eliot managed another three slow, shaky steps, wrapping him in a tight hug. 

"Careful with the abdomen," Eliot hissed, "But don't you dare stop hugging me."

Quentin squeaked an apology and adjusted his hold, tears flowing freely when Eliot handed his cane to Margo, wrapping him up in his arms again. Emotions stuck in his throat. He never thought he'd get this again. Never thought he'd see Eliot as _Eliot_ again and - and here he was. His hands shook as he pulled away. With the absence of his body as a support, Margo handed Eliot's cane back to him and he grasped it gratefully. 

"So you're really alive, huh?" Eliot said, a stray tear making its way down his cheek. 

"Um, I second that question," Alice said, stepping beside him and threading their fingers together. Quentin squeezed her hand, relief flooding through him at the solid feeling of her skin against his. 

"Honestly, I third it," Quentin said, his voice wet through the tears he couldn't hold back anymore, either, "Because up until about 30 seconds ago I was, um, in Blackspire, without a heartbeat. And before that I was - a lot of other places that weren't here." 

Eliot reached his free hand forward, resting it against his chest. "Feels pretty beat-y to me, Q," he said, a soft smile playing at his lips. He nodded at Alice, "But I did just spend a year trapped in my mind palace, so a second opinion may be needed." 

Alice snaked her free hand up his chest and rested it over his heart. She nodded, letting it fall a moment later. "That's definitely a heartbeat. But that's really only the first of my questions." 

"Mine, too," Quentin nodded, "But honestly, who the fuck cares? I'm here. I'm here, and I want to be here and - and, I'm starving." 

"Lucky for you," Margo said, still hovering by Eliot's side like he might need assistance at any given moment, "Pizza's on the way." 

"And can we, um, maybe sit down?" he asked, half for himself, half for the way Eliot's face was draining of color. 

"Yeah, yeah," Alice said, shaking her head and following Eliot and Margo to the couch, not once dropping his hand. 

"Well, _fuck,_ " Margo said emphatically, smoothing Eliot's hair back from his face before casting what was almost a loving look in Quentin's direction, "Welcome back to the land of the living, Coldwater. If you ever pull anything like that again, I'll find a way to bring you back just to kill you myself." 

Quentin laughed. He knew there would be something, someone, some _being_ to answer to for whatever had just happened. Better than anyone, they all knew that things like this didn't happen without consequences to follow, but for the first time in a _year,_ he laughed. For the first time in a year, he was in a room full of the people he loved, all alive, including him. For the first time in a year, he _wanted to be alive._

If that wasn't his destiny, he didn't really give a damn about what destiny wanted from him. 


End file.
